(The opinions expressed here are those of the author, a
columnist for Reuters.)

By Anya Schiffrin

(Reuters) When my father, the editor and writer Andre
Schiffrin, was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer last
spring, my family assumed we would care for him in New York. But
my parents always spent part of each year in Paris, where my
father was born, and soon after he began palliative chemotherapy
at Memorial Sloan Kettering my father announced he wanted to
stick to his normal schedule - and spend the summer in France.

I humored him - though my sister and I didn't want him to
go. We felt he should stay in New York City, in the apartment
where we grew up. I could visit him daily there, bringing
takeout from his favorite Chinese restaurant and helping my
mother.

I also didn't know what the French healthcare system would
be like. I'd read it was excellent, but assumed that meant there
was better access for the poor and strong primary care. Not
better cancer specialists. How could a public hospital in Paris
possibly improve on Sloan Kettering's cancer treatment?

After all, people come from the all over the world for
treatment at Sloan Kettering. My mother and I don't even speak
French. How could we speak to nurses or doctors and help my
father? How would we call a taxi or communicate with a pharmacy?

But my dad got what he wanted, as usual. After just one
cycle of chemo in New York, my parents flew to Paris, to stay in
their apartment there. The first heathcare steps were
reassuring: my parents found an English-speaking pancreatic
cancer specialist and my dad resumed his weekly gemcitabine
infusions.

My parents were pleasantly surprised by his new routine. In
New York, my father, my mother and I would go to Sloan Kettering
every Tuesday around 9:30 a.m. and wind up spending the entire
day. They'd take my dad's blood and we'd wait for the results.
The doctor always ran late. We never knew how long it would take
before my dad's name would be called, so we'd sit in the waiting
room and, well, wait. Around 1 p.m. or 2 p.m. my dad would
usually tell me and my mom to go get lunch. (He never seemed to
be hungry.) But we were always afraid of having his name called
while we were out. So we'd rush across the street, get takeout
and come back to the waiting room.

We'd bring books to read. I'd use the Wi-Fi and eat the
graham crackers that MSK thoughtfully left out near the coffee
maker. We'd talk to each other and to the other patients and
families waiting there. Eventually, we'd see the doctor for a
few minutes and my dad would get his chemo. Then, after fighting
New York crowds for a cab at rush hour, as my dad stood on the
corner of Lexington Avenue feeling woozy, we'd get home by about
5:30 p.m.

So imagine my surprise when my parents reported from Paris
that their chemo visits couldn't be more different. A nurse
would come to the house two days before my dad's treatment day
to take his blood. When my dad appeared at the hospital, they
were ready for him. The room was a little worn and there was
often someone else in the next bed but, most important, there
was no waiting. Total time at the Paris hospital each week: 90
minutes.

There were other nice surprises. When my dad needed to see
specialists, for example, instead of trekking around the city
for appointments, he would stay in one room at Cochin Hospital,
a public hospital in the 14th arrondissement where he received
his weekly chemo. The specialists would all come to him. The
team approach meant the nutritionist, oncologist, general
practitioner and pharmacist spoke to each other and coordinated
his care. As my dad said, "It turns out there are solutions for
the all the things we put up with in New York and accept as
normal."

One day he had to spend a few hours at Cochin. They gave
him, free of charge, breakfast and then a hot lunch that
included salad and chicken. They also paid for his taxi to and
from the hospital each week.

"Can't you think of anything bad about the French healthcare
system?" I asked during one of our daily phone calls. My mom
told me about a recent uproar in the hospital: It seems a
brusque nurse rushed into the room and forgot to say good
morning. "Did you see that?" another nurse said to my mom. "She
forgot to say bonjour!"

When the gemcitabine stopped working, the French oncologist
said he would put my dad on another drug - one my dad's U.S.
insurance plan had refused to approve in New York.

By this time, I had become a French healthcare bore.
Regaling my New York friends with stories of my dad's superb
care in Paris, I found people assumed he was getting VIP
treatment or had a fancy private plan. Not at all. He had the
plain vanilla French government healthcare.

I had read many articles about the French healthcare system
during the long public debate over Obamacare. But I still I
hadn't understood fully, until I read this interview in the New
York Times, that the French system is basically like an expanded
Medicaid. Pretty much everyone has insurance, it explained, and
the French get better primary care and more choice of doctors
than we do. It also turns out, as has been much commented on,
that despite all this great treatment, the French spend far less
on healthcare than Americans.

In 2011, France's expenditure on health per capita was
$4,086, compared to $8,608 in the United States, according to
the World Health Organization. Spending as a percentage of gross
domestic product was 11.6 percent in France while in the United
States it was a far higher 17.9 percent.

Last fall, my mother asked me to come and see their general
practitioner in Paris so we could plan ahead for my father. My
mom got an appointment for the next morning and we walked to the
office, five minutes from my parents' apartment. We waited for a
half-hour on a comfortable couch, chuckling over the very French
selection of magazines on the coffee table (Elle and Vogue) and
admiring the lush garden view. The waiting room was quiet. I
realized what was missing: There was no billing department.

We spoke with the doctor for about 45 minutes. My mom wanted
to know what would happen when my dad was no longer able to
walk. "Oh," said the doctor, speaking in English. "I prescribe a
wheelchair and it's delivered to your house. Shall I do it now?"

When I asked the price, she looked surprised. No charge. She
asked if we wanted someone to come to the house every day and it
was my turn to look surprised. What would they do? For example,
someone could come and give my dad a massage to alleviate his
neck pain. Again, no charge.

At the end of the appointment, my mom pulled out her French
insurance card. Total cost of the visit? 18 euros.

When my dad began to get worse, the home visits started.
Nurses came three times a day to give him insulin and check his
blood. The doctor made house calls several times a week until my
father died on December 1.

The final days were harrowing. The grief was overwhelming.
Not speaking French did make everything more difficult. But one
good thing was that French healthcare was not just first rate -
it was humane. We didn't have to worry about navigating a
complicated maze of insurance and co-payments and doing battle
with billing departments.

Every time I sit on hold now with the billing department of
my New York doctors and insurance company, I think back to all
the things French healthcare got right. The simplicity of that
system meant that all our energy could be spent on one thing:
caring for my father.